


Mark the Voice

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [69]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied Relationships, M/M, Other, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [69]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	Mark the Voice

_'How odd.'_

Maxwell could not remember the last time he's looked upon the words that were written upon his skin. The shadows had once taken that sight, that intuition away from him a long, long time ago, when he had first opened his eyes to the darkness that curved and filtered through the cracks of the universe, when pages upon pages of Latin and English and so much more wove and brushed under his fingertips, when the whispers and hushed coos had taken over the black nights before every show.

The Throne itself had tied him down, wrapped thick shadow to his being and very soul, and it had covered and bound his wrists with perhaps even more prejudice. The voices in the dark did not remark upon it, the Codex had not once mentioned such understandings, and perhaps the marks themselves, the words and praises and curls of lettering that spread about the skin, perhaps it was far too human for Them to understand. When Maxwell had been upon the Throne, for a while it almost felt that such things were beyond him as well.

Now, before the firelight as camp hushed in early night, members retiring to bed or finishing up late business, the old man sat alone and quiet as he contemplated the mark on his own skin.

Thin, curled thin and marred only slightly by the age of his body and the older scars his past self had inflected, oh so long ago now, and Maxwell idly brushed a gloved thumb over the dark letters, the faint protrusion of his bones and the darker veins that threaded underneath.

_'How odd'_ , the two words said, a single, simple sentence, no exclamation, no tone on the basic letters, and for a mere moment Maxwell could remember when they had first appeared.

Long before the Constant, on a boat across the Atlantic, sea sick and feverish with his anxieties and fears and the sheer act of leaving something familiar behind for the unknown, only the money in his pockets and the cloths on his back, the few tricks and tips he's taught himself those years looking for a way out. He vaguely remembered awaking in the cramped quarters he had been able to afford, the snoring of other travelers in the less than luxurious rooms, and blurrily staring down upon the two words, numbing and prickling and now printed, wrapped tight and small to the thin skin of his wrist, right below his palm.

It took a few days after that to get level headed enough to recognize the significance, for whatever it would bring him in the end. His crossing to the States told him that fate, at the very least, meant for him to be there.

It had also meant a resurrection of old childhood memories and teachings, and the William of then had thought long and hard, toyed with so many different sayings, words as he lay upon cheap hotel beds and wracked his mind for just the right thing to say.

He didn't remember how many he went through, greetings or half remembered poetry or words, sometimes in other languages even as he experimented with how they had sounded leaving his lips, but in the end Maxwell vaguely remembered having finally settled onto something a bit more polite and less awkward than some of his earlier attempts.

_'Say, pal.'_ Those were the words William had grown more familiar, confident with, practicing in front of a mirror in the mornings and whispering the words to himself as he prepared for strenuous days of work and attempted magic tricks and the whole packaged deal of what his dreams have always called for.

A solid phrase, a polite greeting and yet individual to himself, and it sounded right, when he'd posture on stage and introduce himself with his saying and then the dip of his tophat, a bow as he began his performance. It had worked out, quite well in fact, but there was never a hint of recognition to him, the voicing of his mark, and for a while there William had sucked it up and went through his new, much harsher life with his thoughts focused upon his magics and his gloves pulled up high past his wrists.

When he had introduced himself to Charlie, the first, the only one to answer his ad in the papers, William had inadvertently stuttered up on his saying a bit, nervous and flighty as he had coughed into his fist as apology. A newly initiated magician, anxious to meet their assistant, and there she had been, a young woman with a face free of worry lines and eyes wide and looking, for one reason or another, happy to be there and meeting with him.

She had given him a small smile at his stumbled words, sympathetic maybe, as she said in a voice that Maxwell wouldn't forget, even now in this dark world of lost memory and twisted thought, _'From the thorn comes a rose, from the rose comes the thorn.'_

"Original." Maxwell vaguely remembered complimenting her, still nervous, still adjusting his glasses and straightening up and making himself take back what he had tripped up upon earlier.

"Yours too," she had answered back, a soft, well humored laugh as she had taken a seat, "Not something I've ever heard before, that's for sure. My name's Charlie."

"William." He had said, and then "It is nice to meet you."

And then from there it steadily snowballed, until the scattered crowds became audiences and William became Maxwell and Charlie stood there by his side all the while, always her own greeting to follow after his in the show introductions.

She was the one to recommend the use of roses, and Maxwell had wholeheartedly agreed.

He was the one to discreetly use the shadows, and in the end that great snowball of hopes and dreams had slowed to a crumbling crawl, before disappearing for good.

Like the both of them, Maxwell thought to himself, and in his mind's eye he wondered what it was like, the world turning out there that held no Charlie, no William in it any longer.

According to Winona, her world had grown into a much quieter, sadder place. The woman had spent most of her life now looking for her missing sister, had tracked and trailed and dug her way through so many secrets and rabbit holes that it was a wonder she hadn't been caught and brutally "removed" from the picture before now, but he supposed it was what it was. The mechanic was a hardy engineer, and had a way with people that reminded him all too much of Charlie.

A bit more heavy handed, and that abrasive laugh that did not compare to the soft elegance the new Queen of the Constant had such a knack with, but all the same.

...He did not ask, on the dark lettering that was printed down the woman's right arm, just peeking half a word past the cuff of her sleeve. The rest curled up behind her shoulder, he's caught sight of that once when a hound attack had done in more injuries than usual, though he had excused himself quickly enough as to tend to himself elsewhere and out of sight.

It wasn't any of his business, knowing the words upon the sister of the woman he had, once upon a time, perhaps considered closer than friends. _'She's making history~'_ meant nothing to him, and Maxwell did not nose his way into Winona's personal, now far lost previous life.

Neither did he ask of the soft glow, the faintest indication of fulfillment and fate, the fact that the woman hadn't bothered greeting in some specific way the first time she had stumbled into this camp full of strangers. It had not been him who had brought the woman to this place, no, but her sister was here because of him, and now it was solidified that his choices have indeed broken connections not meant to be separated. Winona was alone here, had given up her words, who she had found, to find her sister, and Maxwell did not bother her when he'd stumble upon her when he was out on his nightly, cursed insomniac walks, did not interrupted her soft sobs or listen in to her hushed words, meant only to herself or her sister.

Maxwell did not ask.

Back then he had never asked Charlie either, though she had laughed a bit when she had seen the two words on his wrist, a surprised sound and playful teasing when she had asked and gossiped with him on what it could mean, who it could be, what _Maxwell_ would like it to mean, but the only bit she revealed when she mentioned her own words was that they were special to her.

And that was all, Maxwell supposed. He wondered, sometimes, if the Throne and its shadows covered her like it had done to him, scoured the words from her thoughts, forgotten and hidden from sight. He supposed that it did not involve him, not anymore.

Now, as the flames flickered steady and the collective chattering had quieted down for the night, Maxwell squinted down at those small letters, sitting there upon his skin, unremorseful and unfulfilled and yet, and yet…

He closed his gloved hand over his wrist, brought his arms closer to curl in his lap, and the glow of the firelight was enough to chase that other, so much more fainter glow away.

Unfulfilled, and yet as enlightened as Winona's own mark. Sometimes, sometimes the woman even _spoke_ of her connection, a few words here or there, remarks in this or that, and while the sadness of lose clung to her voice Maxwell would stand still, listen on the outskirts of camp as Winona would tell the firestarter or the strongman or even the children stories of who her mark connected her to.

The sadness would lift, something else to replace it, so much lighter and whole and encompassing instead, and then he would quickly turn on his heel and find something else to distract himself with.

Always the same, distancing himself the moment words were spoken and the air grew thick with something he couldn't, _didn't_ want to identify. It wasn't any of his damn business after all, it never had been, not Williams and certainly not Maxwells, and vaguely he'd remember the time Jack got his mark, that brandishing of curling letters and words that had appeared on the back of his hand.

_'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'_ it had said, odd and cryptic, but they had both been young and excited and babbling all about what it could mean, who might it be someday in the future, talking up a storm until they made too much noise and their father's voice had rung out from downstairs, yelling at them to be quiet.

He used to get letters from Jack, paragraphs of words, of Jack's wife, of their two daughters, twins, true twins and not fraternal like his brother and him, but Maxwell never got the courage up to ask if she had really been the _one._

Because that was the point of it, wasn't it? These marks were not always tried true, or perhaps were much too complex to follow.

Perhaps that was why They did not understand it, Maxwell thought to himself. It was far too complex.

Across from him and the firepit, sitting under a wall less tent and gaze focused down upon one of her many, many books, Wickerbottom hunched over her desk as her feather pencil scratched across the page, setting the inked words to dry.

From here he could not see, but Maxwell has gotten a few good looks to those marks, the ones that circled and dipped low like necklaces about her throat, to touch upon and follow her bones and thin skin. Scars, faded painless scars, two unreadable raised skin blemishes and the third so pale and indistinct that not a single word could be read from them now.

"The first," he had overheard once, putting away bundles of rope into one of the chests nearby as the old woman answered Webbers curious clicking questions, "passed from a stroke. _'What a mighty fine evening'_ , he said to me, a very nice fellow, liked to take walks by the lake, taught me many wonderful dances."

Webber had giggled, sitting down and watching as the old woman did a little jig for them, and Maxwell had slowed his movements to watch from the corner of his eyes. 

Wickerbottom had been faintly smiling, a soft look that pulled the wrinkles of her face, the reminiscing thick and fuzzy, even with the past marks, connections long gone.

"The second, a locomotive accident, very tragic. I remember him fondly, had such a taste for old history, quite a grand collection." She smiled a more full expression this time, fond and lost in memories as the spider child listened intently to her words. " ' _Ex hoc momento pendet aeternitas',_ with just a hint of a lisp. I still haven't forgotten, and I am sure he must be so mad for that to be what I remember most of him."

By then Maxwell had closed up the chest, gloved hands steady on top, listening silently as Webber had chittered in thought, a brief moment of explaining the use of the Latin language, before they asked of the last set, faded and not as scared over as the other two.

"Oh, that wasn't as long ago as my first two husbands, dear. Passed away in her sleep, only a few years younger than me." A faint sadness, obviously picked up by the fact that Webber was churring a quiet, comforting sound, but Wickerbottom laughed a soft, reminiscing little laugh. " ' _And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon'._ I knew of that poem, had been doing a bit of writing prose myself. She quite liked cats, and when she was gone I took care of them all."

Webber had chirped, chittered happily at learning this information, as the old woman let them have another look to the scarred marks about her neck and recounted more and more happy tales of her past partners, and Maxwell had eventually heard enough, stormed off to _not_ skulk somewhere else by himself.

Eventually Higgsbury had tracked him down and got him back to camp in time to eat dinner, meatballs as was usual, the side of mashed potatoes by the newly arrived chef, ' _Yo_ ' written in plain thick letters on the back of his neck, not as expected. That...hadn't been a bad night, all things considering.

The old woman continued to write, by firelight and the soft glow of the lantern atop her wooden table, and Maxwell squinted his eyes at her for a few moments more, a certain kind of resentment easing through his nerves before he looked away and dismissed the bad air in his lungs and chest with a silent, heavy sigh. None of his damn business, no matter how much he knew.

As if the letters of his own would scar, and he certainly didn't envy the old woman for the death in her life. The thought, three connections, three severed relationships, it wasn't appealing in any way whatsoever.

And yet...Wickerbottom had been happy, telling her stories to Webber, remembering those she had long lost in a way that Maxwell could not understand. The sadness had not become her.

Maxwell tiredly stared into the fire for a few more long minutes, hands in his lap, one pressing fingers and brushing over the empty two words printed upon his wrist in mindless self touch. His exhaustion tonight was heavy, encompassing, but he was not willing to head to bed just yet.

He'd end up staring up at the tent ceiling, watching as the night sky outside steadily lightened up with the morning sun. The nightmares could not plague him if he did not let them, sleepless, dreamless.

And Wilson was still out, gathering fireflies and lightbulbs from the upper cave levels. He should be back before midnight, along with the clanging, heavy footed WX78.

The unlettered WX78, metal and rust and gears and wires and coiled joints, lights and steam and leaking oils. Unmarked, untethered and unbothered, Maxwell knew, and yet they still strayed close to camp, ever closer. Attending to the flower patches with Wendy and Abigail, slowly trailing the gardens with Wickerbottom, walking long, dangerous cave and ruin walks with Wes.

Accompanying Wilson when the man was attending to his science machines and engines, words exchanged here or there, sometimes even a very brief mechanical check up that the android would allow on occasion. Those Maxwell did not interrupt, as he already knew digging around in mechanically failing parts has lost Higgsbury a few fingers before and he'd rather not cause such a distraction.

The quiet talking he did not eavesdrop upon either, no matter his curiosity; WX78 was alert at all times, and he did not want to test himself against the android. Let the two of them talk, converse in whatever they wished; it had nothing to do with Maxwell, he was sure.

As the fire crackled and churned and burned to itself merrily, out of the corner of his eye Maxwell caught sight of movement. He didn't make the obvious show of looking, as the firestarter snuck out from her own tent, tiptoed her way through shadows before arriving to her destination, viking poking her head out and greeting her with a smile.

And something more, to which Maxwell this time turned his head up and away from, balefully ignoring the show of hidden intimacy. 

None of his damn business, the words he knew that were curved in a lazy wave down Willows thigh, letters enunciated and marked by thick accented lines, nor the softer letters that dipped below Wigfrids ribs on her left side, sharp and yet written small, compact. Upon the Throne he had the very _nerve_ to idly look in on times that he had no right to, and nowadays he's found himself tending to the injuries of others, in varying, somewhat intruding places, and knowing the letters themselves did nothing to ease the knot up in Maxwells own chest.

_'A fire's light ön the hörizon-!',  
'This is gonna burn!'_

Unintended first words, moments in time. The only thing he could be grateful for was that he missed when it had happened; the Throne was not tethered to him by then, and Maxwell had only learned of it far later, along with the rest of the survivors and their much more receptive reactions.

He hadn't _cared_ , of course, but unfortunately the two had picked up on his bitterness, were near insufferable for days until he eventually stormed off after snapping back, a last straw that almost had him take the route of moving to another of the Constants planes of existence.

Having it be rubbed in his face, ever constant and intruding and _there_ , in all its fulfilled glowing soft connection, had been straining to withstand, and being mocked of his own insecurities, unknowing as the two fools had been with their words, had set him far more on edge than he'd of thought it would have.

Wilson had convinced him to come back, in the end. Got his thoughts off the razor and portals and other, lonelier lands, as he always did, and when Maxwell had made his exhausted, moody way back to camp, Higgsbury leading him along, the teasing had all but dissipated.

Idiots, the lot of them, irrational, but they at the very least seemed to learn common courtesy every once in a while. Made things a little easier to handle, when the nightmares eventually came to him in the waking hours and he took his lone walks in the darkest of nights.

Even now, as they did their deeds in their own time, Maxwell knew he could not influence how the others lived their lives. Willow will always be loud and brash and excited to see the viking, and Wigfrid will always be so much louder, sweeping the other woman off her feet and shouting her _love_ to the heavens, and both woman would always just be so damn _happy_ to see each other, to be near each other.

And it was none of Maxwell's damn business. Avert his eyes, excuse himself so he didn't have to _hear_ it, let it filter warm and fuzzy through the air and just ache horribly in his chest, at his own lack, at how none of the others seemed to feel or even know the same. 

_'How odd'_ , his damnable words wrote out upon his skin, and there they'd sit no matter how many times he's died, passed away violently in this place only to be yanked back by uncaring safety nets or unaware, obligated acts of revival. 

His grip over his own wrist was almost bruising, head ducked and jaw set as the fire cracked and popped to itself, as the firestarter and viking retired together with soft smiles on their faces. Not the only ones stuck here together, ironically enough.

He didn't believe it to have been intentional, his doing or Theirs, coincidence perhaps that matching marks seemed to follow the same path here. Winona, after all, was a pure exception so far.

Even the mime, having been trapped under the Constants surface for so long and for so deep, had an ankle of words, of past scars, some unfulfilled and softly faded, others violent and sharply cut; unmet, or self undone perhaps. Maxwell had seen no reason to ask, all that time ago upon the Throne, and Wes had obviously seen no reason to share.

And yet, still the latest set stood out, curled under the Achilles tendon, the softest of acknowledgment to them. _'Ah, yes, what a funny man!'_ , and it _was_ funny, perhaps, how quickly those had been spoken.

The strongman's own scars, life well lived Maxwell supposed, were caught all about his arms, curving tight in old blemishes to his muscles. It was the one on his belly, just to the left that stood out now, words that had no verbal meaning, spoken with hands and standing out like the strokes of a paintbrush.

Made sense that it wasn't an open, public understanding as it was with the firestarter and viking, Maxwell supposed. But, whether or not Wes would look upon Wolfgang when he laughed from deep in his gut, fond and softly even, or the companionable intimacy they both seemed to share so brazenly together, none of it made a difference to the former King of the Constant.

Neither, too, did the marks that painted themselves to the lumberjacks back, dipping from shoulder to shoulder, _'For it may be I'm nearer home, nearer now than I think~'._ Faded, but unscathed; fulfilled and together, and yet as far apart as the connection could ever be stretched. The man never seemed worse for wear, in whatever brief woes he'd go through by his lonesome in the deep woods, axe ever in hand and in company, and Maxwell still vaguely remembered how Woodie taught the children the song the words came from, taught them a dance or two as well during a long, well lived autumn.

None of it was his damn business, what the lot of the survivors and their connections did with themselves. In the end, just keep it out of his sight, that was all that he wished.

All he found himself wishing for nowadays, to not be privy to such things. Made everyday life much easier, dull as it was, when he didn't have to excuse himself from some wild show of affection or proclamation of binding "love", as everyone always seems to gravitate to.

If there had been no marks, an unwholesome thought that still nagged at him deep in the nights, wondering if ripping the words out would, in fact, make them _go away_ , then Maxwell would have called it as it felt.

They were just lonely, of course. Damnable connections to excuse those bothersome feelings, tether people trapped in this hell together as to stand tall and live their own lives worth some sort of meaningless meaning.

And it all sat bitter in his own chest, these words on his wrist, mocking him for the failures he's achieved in his wasteful lifespan. 

The world out there held no Charlie, no William or Maxwell, and yet there was unbidden evidence that the Queen was remembered, missed. What did he have for his own self servicing existence? 

A niece, who spoke little of her mother and none of her father, haunted by the spirit of her own sister. No marks, no words, and, in this place, never would such a thing grace her.

There was envy in him, for what she got in return for the Constants existence. But, perhaps her twins undeath was to balance it; Maxwell knew he'd not be able to withstand a haunting from Jack Carter, and for vastly different reasons to how Wendy handled poor departed Abigail.

As with everyone else in this camp, living and surviving and finding their own meaning to their existence - it was none of Maxwell's damn business, and he would tell himself this as often as he needed, as often as he could, just to solidify, to concrete inside himself; eventually, perhaps he'd be able to make himself believe it fully.

There were only the letters on his own wrist, and even that he hid away, covered and kept out of sight. For all that William had feared in these two words, Maxwell supposed that not even his younger paranoid self could have predicted the consequences of his very own continued existence. Perhaps, if it had never been allowed to occur, opposing that path down from the shadows and Their promises and lies…

But alas, far too late for that and those thoughts. The Constant will not let him go now, They hadn't wanted him to leave Their grip back then and now he was trapped here, to Them and Their ever twisting wants, and there was nothing to be done but slog through whatever was thrown at him each and every day.

Acknowledging the pitiful existence of himself, in comparison to the lights the others seemed to harbor, was far beyond what Maxwell ever wanted to know, but They always did get what They wanted in the end. He wondered, often, how Charlie was taking it, of her mistakes in trusting him.

Of stopping him, so long ago. It wasn't always Their doing that made sure his path stayed steady, after all. Did she regret it, perhaps?

He would understand if she did. The letters on his wrist glowed in all their softness, no matter how much he rubbed and pinched and wished them off himself, and Maxwell let his shoulders fall, blurrily watching the fire, feeding it when it fell low and waiting out the night.

Waiting it out, something he always seemed to arrive to. Patience may have settled deep within him now, far more than it ever used to, and some days it ate away into a listless rooting malignancy instead, brought on stronger by Their cloying presence, coy words and whisperings. 

Even now, close to the light and away from the edges of darkness his nights usually had him tread close by, tempting the nights eyes and teeth, Maxwell knew he could close his eyes and all he'd hear would be the ever looping music, the ever continual whisper wash of Their voices. So far away from the Throne, for so long, and They will still not let him go.

He didn't think They ever would, not really. Even if there was a way out, somehow, in someway, he did not think he'd slip from Their fingers and be spared so easily. Something would end up following him, catching up eventually, and then it would be back to square one with him.

...if he was really lucky, Maxwell would think to himself in these meandering thoughts of escape during his late night walks, perhaps he'd remove himself first, quicker than Their groping, searching shadows. The beings of the Constant could not catch him if he was ever truly, permanently dead, after all.

Time passed, time he wasn't keeping track of, and eventually the soft shifting movement alerted him to the old woman retiring to bed. He didn't return her long look, wrinkles that pulled at her face and the steady frown she usually leveled him with, that unwanted concern, before she shook her head, put away her books and pages and tools, and hobbled over to her own tent to rest the last of the night away.

He did not miss her pause, her hand pressed to just under her throat, tracing those old marks and lines before finally disappearing behind the tent doors. Her grief may not make who she was, but her sadness, at times, was still thick in the air.

Maxwell turned his head from the private act, eyes back to the fire, and made no comment, internal or external.

Soon low sound, faint drifting mumbles broke his unwavering, blurry eyed gaze from the fire, broke down the spiraling train tack of thoughts into a faded half memory as he was brought back to the present, and Maxwell had to rub his eyes, scrub away the exhausted dryness before finally turning to peer out into the night. Just a scant few feet out in the darkness, the vague outlines of the fences and walls and other meaningless structures the others have wasted their time into building up, the faint glow of lantern and miner hat light was steadily growing closer.

Maxwell watched as the lanterns field shifted, movement in a half wave and that too far away mumble of voice, before the two lights split off in different paths.

WX78's amber glow, the thicker glass plane shading the fireflies lights into a haze, went along the outskirts and then turned away, passing trees and finally disappearing altogether on their way back to their own camp. The lantern light, in comparison with its more ethereal bio plant glow from the light bulbs of the caves, made its steady way towards the middle of camp, the campfire, and Maxwell.

He turned his gaze away, exhaustion settling more thickly to him now, his lack of sleep fully catching up and ensuring his thoughts wouldn't be kept on track as well as they should be. When was the last time he had taken a rest, dedicated time to sleep like so many of the others?

Then again, even if the others had their nightmares and inner demons, Maxwell knew he'd not get even a hint of rest if he tried. The dreams come in all the same, no matter the circumstances; too often visions of the Throne, visions of Charlie, of the dark and the shadows curling over his wrists and bleeding him out of every thought and emotion, draining him to be that perfect little puppet. In his dreams, the words on his arm were long gone.

It took a moment, to recognize the footsteps and the sound of chests being opened and closed, the soft noise of glass jars tapping against each other, the faint glows of caught fireflies and tied together light bulbs, and Maxwell closed his eyes, the light burn from staring into the flames blending and then fading to the dark static behind his eyelids. The soft, steady sound, someone moving about the campsite attending to usual business, putting away and stacking, and even the faint click of the icebox being opened, more digging around and shutting away of gathered items from the underground. 

It was almost familiar, in a way. Made his wrist itch, covering the mark firmly, before he slowly pulled his other glove on, covering and protecting him from unwanted eyes.

As if They all didn't know already, but he'd like to believe it.

There was a pause in the usual movements, the steps, as if just now noticing him as Maxwell smoothed out his jacket, sat up straighter, eyes still closed and fatigue still so highly built up, a balancing act that the night watched so intently at every opportunity.

"...You're still up?"

Even at his level of tiredness Maxwell could pinpoint that exact thickness of exhaustion, cave exploring that strained the body and mind. The other man's voice was thick with the need to sleep, and this time around it didn't take as much effort, to not speak snidely or rude in answer.

It was near midnight, and it was obvious that Wilson had a long day. It wouldn't do anyone any good if Maxwell decided to be a bother. Under his glove his mark sat, buzzing numb at the proximity.

He just wasn't up for it.

"Not tired." The lie came out easy from his tongue, as they always have ever since he had first changed his name, and Maxwell opened his eyes, squinted at the bright heat of the fire before dragging his gaze to the other man.

The frazzled hair and heavy eye bags were indication enough, the hint of him holding his weight more to the right instead of balanced, but Wilson's eyes were clear; tired, but clear. He didn't seem to take the answer well, scowling frown dipping on his face as Maxwell met his gaze, before the both of them had to break the eye contact, look away in the brief quiet that neither had words to fill.

"Well, I, um. Wx and I got more than enough lightbulbs this time. The caves were pretty quiet, so we weren't really...interrupted or anything." Wilson ran a hand through his thick hair, a habit that Maxwell did not comment on for the nervous meaning, but his awkward attempt at small talk, the both of them too tired to correctly put up fronts, seemed to peeter out after a moment of silence. 

A few seconds more and Wilson turned away, went about putting the rest of the caves loot away, stashing marble and gems in with his own work table supplies, a hefty bag of eels stowed amongst the rest of the food inside the ice boxes. The silence stretched between them as the other man went about his last chores, as Maxwell sat and stared at the fire, only a few slow glances here and there in absentmindedness. Now that there was something more to watch than the flames, his exhaustion seemed to come back tenfold, and every once in a while his eyes closed, his balance leaning a bit before his awareness woke him back up into the discomfort that it was, staying awake and sitting like this.

He was out of it enough to not notice when the other man had come up behind him, only a brief freezing up when a hand softly brushed his shoulder, stiffening when the grip was adjusted to put a bit more weight into the action. 

"Get some sleep soon, alright? I'm heading to bed now." A sort of defeat seemed to lace Wilson's voice, and Maxwell stayed stock still when that hand squeezed his shoulder, a minor act in of itself, but he still nodded his head, a short, sharp motion that would have come off as hostile had it not been Wilson who saw, and understood, it. "If you...if nightmares are bothering you, my tent is open."

The last words spoken in a mild hesitance, testing the waters and waiting for Maxwell to make a sound in acknowledgment, which he did, a huff of a sigh and flutter of his hand in dismissal, his other going to his eyes to cover, attempt to rub the exhaustion, mental, physical, emotional, out of him.

Another brief squeeze, as if still waiting, before Wilson drew back and retired to his tent, unseen behind Maxwell and the firepit. 

The offer was not uncommon, no, not at all. Not every night, of course, but Maxwell did not take those words lightly, or for granted.

He pressed one hand over his wrist, against the thick leather of his worn gloves, and the sigh that billowed from him was a raspingly tired one. The warm humming sensation did not escape his notice, and it never will.

He had the decency to wait, to blink blurry eyed upwards and watch the dark night, its dull scattering of false stars. The eyes in the dark were avoided in doing so, as he held pressure to his mark, his simple, unfocused, unfulfilled mark, and Maxwell sat by himself for a little while longer, roughing out the creeping microsleeps, roughing out the old music that threaded through the night and the knowledge of being watched so carefully.

Funny, how he must be such a show for Them in this place, with all the human bits and pieces They could not, did not want to understand. In the real world William had been so damnably _lacking_ , and now look where he was at.

Soon enough, as midnight crept past, as the dark pulsed away in the usual unnatural nighttime affair, Maxwell finally got himself to his feet. His balance wobbled, swayed back and forth in a light headed rush, but he roughed it out, eyes shut tight and old face snarled in the familiar wave of discomfort, his very bones creaking and limbs aching from having sat so still for so long.

There had been no nightmares, no sleeping ones anyhow, and yet Maxwell slowly turned and made his way to the tent space he had been offered, only a last log fed to the fire before calling it a night.

It appeared that Wilson was long asleep when he carefully crept inside, moving slow as his body ached and as quiet as he could, not willing to cause a disturbance. The other man could be such a light sleeper sometimes, ready for anything even while asleep, and Maxwell did not wish to drag out the night anymore than it already has been by his own hand.

For all that Wilson spread himself out when sleeping alone, there was still space enough for Maxwell to shift himself under the covers, curl up with his back turned, facing the close fabric wall of the tent. A familiar position, as he held his offending hand to his chest, wrist heated and only a vague irritation as he adjusted himself a bit more before finally relaxing down with a sigh.

It was warm, all things considered. It always was, warm and comfortable even with the faint smell of beefalo fur bedding and Moose Goose feather filled pillows, and Maxwell slowly let his eyes close, another, almost fitful this time, sigh whistling from his chest. 

Being so close, and yet so far; a comfort in its own right, and one he never turned down.

He didn't sleep, as was usual. The resting was the best he could afford, drifting into an almost light doze, and it didn't take long, as usual, for there to be a bit of sleepy shifting around, even sleepier mumbles, before warm hands ghosted over his side.

Maxwell didn't react, pulled from his spiral of an exhausted trance, an internal wall against the shadows and Their nightmares, and when Wilson pulled against him, arms wrapped around and face pressed to his spine, right between his shoulder blades, Maxwell did nothing.

Nothing but relax, ever so slightly, and the warm ache seemed to ease up, on his wrist and his chest and throat, just a little bit it seemed to fade into a much more comforting feeling. 

He didn't need to open his eyes to know it was almost morning, the light taking over the dark of night, seeping through his closed eyelids. The warm air was much softer in his lungs, the contact erasing away the aches and pains for a blessed moment in time that he vaguely, tiredly knew he appreciated, no matter the consequences.

And no matter the clumsy, curious hand, one that trailed his curled arms, pulled away his gloved hand and carefully eased up the cover of the leather. A calloused thumb rubbed over the warmth printed upon his wrist, a soft mumble and shift where he knew the other man had raised his head, was giving the mark a long, hard look before laying back down, nuzzling his face to Maxwell's covered shoulders with a heavy sigh.

It was a familiar action, a comforting one even, as Maxwell continued to pretend he was asleep, as that thumb rubbed soft circles against his skin, chasing away the aches and pains, the ever nagging, inescapable sensations of close presence, closer intimacy and fulfillment.

_'How odd,_ ' Wilson had said, near mumbled, a long, long time ago now, in another world, another existence. ' _I must need a break; radios just don't turn on on their own.'_

Soon enough Wilson would be getting up, would lay his hand on Maxwell's shoulder for a few silent moments, as if debating waking him, before instead quietly leaving the tent on his own. Here Maxwell would stay, for a few more hours at least, resting his exhaustion back into manageable levels before something or other would get him up and out, back into the world full of its complexities that neither They nor he could ever truly follow, and that was what he supposed his life has led up to nowadays, this bizarre cast of markings that all connected to each other in one way or another, surviving, and he supposed even thriving.

No matter his own insecurities, Maxwell knew he was a part of it too. 

The hand wrapped about his, entangled with his fingers and touching his mark with a soft, almost curious touch, was quiet and gentle, holding close to him in a way he knew but put no words into speaking, or even understanding. There was no distinguished writing upon Wilsons skin, not a hint of lettering anywhere; perhaps that was why he was so close with Wx78, Webber, even Wendy. He shared something in common with them, and, like them, he held no regrets or shame from it.

And yet in response Maxwell was held for reasons he could not figure out, why his known mark, hidden from the others, would stand out when it was an obvious mistake. The other man had nothing that spoke volumes on his skin, and yet he allowed this from Maxwell anyway.

Too much for Them, and too much for him. Maxwell kept his eyes closed, kept himself closed off, besides for the blooming comfort of being held, of the warmth that seeped and pooled through him when his mark lit up and hummed and was eased into something far more comforting than the soreness that came from distance, mental, physical, emotional.

It was so glaringly obvious, what was not meant to be, and yet he was held close anyway, warmth shared and soft touch shared even more so. Fate had told him he was going the right way, so long ago, and how wrong it was now, and how despairing William would have been, if he even had a hint of what was to come for him in the end.

But Maxwell was Maxwell, and there was no more William, this world or the last, and no one to remember him besides those trapped here with him. His mark had ended nowhere, nowhere but here, held in stocky arms and soft warm breath against his shoulders, a warmer, calloused hand enfolded with his own and held together like the ill fitting puzzle piece he had always been.

It was a comfort he did not think he could let go, not under the binding spell of his own mark, unfaded, unfulfilled, enlightened. This he could not dare to avert his eyes, nor excuse himself like from the warmth the others shared between themselves; this was between him and the man who held him close for no true reason, none but shared experiences and little else.

His mark had led him nowhere, even as Wilson held him tight, a low sigh and fingers pressing to the heat of the dark letters, and Maxwell knew this, knew it well.

And he'd not ever give it up for the world, this one or the last.


End file.
